


I am my mother's son

by Minuete



Series: His and Her Angst [7]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, Is this considered fluff?, MSR, Mulder's stupid brain disease, Resolved Sexual Tension, Season/Series 07, Writer is procrastinating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 16:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12214239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minuete/pseuds/Minuete
Summary: Mulder first-person POV on a free Saturday.





	I am my mother's son

**Author's Note:**

> I can recall watching season 7 with difficulty, like anticipating a breakup. Season 8 was more difficult to swallow as I had to deal with post-breakup feelings that laid dormant over the summer. By the time Season 9 rolled around, I had moved on being apathetic to the show. Now with the revival seasons 10 and 11, I suppose time healed old wounds. This is my way of dealing with seasons 7 and 8.

_Though my paternity lineage is suspect, one thing is clear: I am my mother’s son._ I wake up and blink at the ceiling a few times with this thought on my mind. I look across my bed and see your naked, languid form half-covered by my sheets, your neck and back exposed to me. The sunlight is streaming through my partially-closed blinds and I can make out your perfect imperfections that show me you’re real, that I’m not dreaming: from the freckles to the bullet wound scar, from the ouroboros tattoo to the faint trace of the chip behind your neck. From being Dana to being Scully. My Scully. I am one lucky bastard as I prop myself up in bed to take this all in while I still can. While my mind is still intact and my memory won’t fail me, though lately you’ve jokingly questioned my eidetic memory.

It is a “gorgeous day outside”, a “precious Saturday” as you would call it, where there is no X-Files case to handle, no monster to chase, no ghost to hunt. It’s only us right now, where the outside world can’t reach the Sanctuary of all Sanctuaries. The safe haven that holds the answer to life’s ultimate question: 42. Apartment #42. I wish I could stop time for us, but the jinni we encountered has warped my view on wishes. I see you stirring, disturbing the sheets that half covered your body as you stretch, arching your back and then turning your head to look at me. You give me a dazzling smile, your blue eyes filled with affection.

You prop yourself up with your left arm fully facing me. “Hey,” you say, your voice still husky from sleep, “what are you thinking about?”

“You,” I answer truthfully. You scoot yourself closer prompting me to lay back down as you perch your upper body on my chest and look upon my face.

“What about me?” You ask, your right eyebrow arching. There is a hint of smirk on your lips as your fingers lightly draw swirls on my chest disturbing the hair.

“I love you,” I confess again as I gaze at you with the same expression I held the first time I declared it in the hospital bed. Your breath hitch and I see the realization in your eyes that I meant it then as I do now. Your eyes don’t falter as you lick your upper lip.

“I know,” you respond and a beatific smile spreads across your face. The Star Wars reference not lost to me, I smile a goofy-looking smile in return. I’m falling even more in love with you.

“You can’t just pull a Han Solo move on me!” I protest as I start tickling you mercilessly while you try to move as far away as you can from me on the bed. Your uninhibited laughter is music to my ears.

“Mulder, stop! I surrender!” you gasp. And surrender you do, passionately so. Deliciously pliant.

As we lay entangled in the bed sheets catching our breaths, I nuzzle myself closer into your bosom lost in my own thoughts again. _I am my mother’s son._  I now understand why my mom kept her illness away from me, the same reason why I’m doing it to you. I haven’t seen you this happy or this carefree in such a long time, Scully, if ever really… It’s this unadulterated joy that’s emanating from within you, that I always want to remember, ingrain into my soul. I’m a selfish prick, Scully, for withholding this illness from you. But I don’t want to taint this moment of happiness we do have together. I don’t want to be the source of grief or sadness reflected in your eyes.

I murmur, “It’s just us, baby”, as you continue to cradle my body with your small frame. I lazily kiss my way up to your neck and continue to lay a trail of kisses along the carotid artery ending them behind your right ear before repeating again, “It’s just us.”

“Hmm,” you purr in agreement as you rub my back digging your fingers between my shoulder blades. I frame your face between my elbows propped on the bed to have a better view of you. You have a wistful expression on your face as you repeat “It’s just us” back to me. If only this statement could be true. If only… I brush your hair away from your face and place a chaste kiss upon your forehead. I have no more leads to follow for a possible cure to my incurable disease; the most potential lead, I shot and killed. It was the humane thing to do.

“Stay,” I tell you in a low tone as I press my forehead against yours, cupping your face between my hands.

“I’m not planning on going anywhere,” you reply as you run your hands along my arms. If only I could say the same as I initiate another repeat performance that always leave us breathless and satiated. All I can do is treasure the time I have with you. All I can ask is that you will forgive me once I’m gone.


End file.
